


paradise by the dashboard light

by flailingthroughsanity



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M, Post-Break Up, Reunions, roadtrip au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 18:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17451743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flailingthroughsanity/pseuds/flailingthroughsanity
Summary: There's a wedding, a cheesy old love song, a roadtrip and a decade of no contact after a break-up.





	paradise by the dashboard light

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to Meat Loaf today (hence the title and inspiration) and I ended up thinking of this AU. Something short and light since I wrote this on the go.

“What—“Shiro started.

“—the fuck?” and Keith finished.

“So, yeah, that’s that, I guess?” An upbeat voice chipped through the phone speaker, the two befuddled and staring at it as if it had grown another head…or a head, in the first place.  
  
“Lance…what the hell, man?” Keith griped, scowling as he scratched his head in irritation. Beside him, the taller and burlier of the two made an agreeing growl.   
  
“Look, I know that we planned to go together but Allura and her family had to reschedule for an earlier date,” Lance, their other friend, whined. Keith could hear someone muttering in the background and had an inkling that this was no innocent accident, “and this would be a great time for the both of ya!”   
  
Uh, no. No fucking way.   
  
Keith verbally repeated the sentiment, not caring about amber eyes looking at him as he expressed his anger. “We’ve known each other for literally ten years, I know you’re not cruel enough to plan this. Tell Allura I hate her and I’ll murder her when I get there.”   
  
“Aww, don’t be like that, Keith!”   
  
“I’ll hold her down while you scalp her face out.” Shiro added.   
  
“Now, that’s a bit uncalled for.” Entered another voice into the conversation – accent still as crisp as it was the day Keith had met her all those years ago. Still, no matter how prim and settled Allura sounded, there was no mistaking the mirth in that tone.   
  
“Oh, just you wait and I’ll show you uncalled for.” Keith promised, tone flat.   
  
Still annoyed, he ended the call and dropped his phone into his pocket. Sweat beaded his forehead and he raised an arm to wipe it off, glaring at the arid sky. Marmora Boulevard – and the rest of the Daibazaal Savannah – was bordering on scorching and it was no comfort to Keith’ rapidly deteriorating mood. He crossed his arms, briefly contemplating on ditching the entire thing but sighed in defeat, letting the thought go. It’d been years since he had last seen Allura and Lance…and Shiro.   
  
Sure, Allura called every other week and Lance just loved to call him every second of every day, but nothing could beat seeing his two best friends in person.   
  
Three, his mind traitorously corrected.   
  
He turned to watch Shiro walk to the shade provided by the gas station’s roof, eyeing the way his white shirt stuck to his back with sweat, golden skin and muscle and dark hair and thick brows and Keith swallowed.   
  
How is it that he can still look so good after—   
  
No.   
  
“Hey,” said occupant of his thoughts called out. “you’ll pass out if you stay out any longer.”   
  
Keith held in the need to give him the finger, just for the hell of it and because he’s still pissed, but he’s twenty-nine years old and he can act with maturity (Allura’ passive-aggressive comments be damned). He marched to where Shiro was, imperious. Or as imperious as he can be with his hair stuck to his forehead, face scowling, and his nice black shirt gathering desert grime.   
  
He also missed the step up the station and trips.   
  
Two large hands catch him and Keith looks up at Shiro’s concerned face.   
  
His concerned face, drops of sweat sliding down his temple, brows furrowed, eyes light in the gleam of the noon sun and—and—and he’s not eighteen anymore, and he shouldn’t feel this way anymore.   
  
“’m fine,” He protested, pushing himself off Shiro and finding his perch by the gas tanks. He gets a whiff of a cologne and he wants to groan aloud but settles with rolling his eyes instead, arms crossed, glaring at nothing.   
  
Not unlike the stand-in trope for teenage angst.   
  
There’s silence between them – and Keith doesn’t want to remember: he doesn’t want to remember the last time he had seen Shiro, the last time he had seen those eyes taking in every nuance of his form (bright-eyed and dim, like feathers trailing on his skin, leaving gooseflesh in their wake), heard the timber of his gravelly voice – raucous in their laughter and grin, doesn’t want to remember the comfortable silence, the moments of action and touch rather than words.   
  
Maybe he’s being dramatic (he really is, but he denies it until his dying day) but Keith feels a maw the size of a canyon larger than the decade between them.   
  
Keith turns to the other, mouth open to question but Shiro is already looking at him and, damn it, why does he feel like he’s about to throw up—   
  
“What?” He ekes out, barely managing not to squeak. The taller of the two simply stares at him for a moment before shaking his head, raising a hand to scratch at scruff by his jaw.   
  
“I’m thinking on ditching this entire thing,” Shiro begins and Keith snorts, following his train of thought. A grin gets thrown his way and Keith looks away. “but I’m pretty sure Allura will find some way to have me kidnapped and escorted to New Altea, sedated if need be.”   
  
He coughs up a laugh at the thought, cuts it short as looks to the store by the station. Shiro seems to have the same idea as he throws out a small “come on” at Keith over his shoulder, long legs leading him to the air-conditioned store…and Keith follows.   
  
(No, it’s not because those denim jeans are fitted well enough to show off Shiro’s form. No, it’s simply because it was hot outside. Yes, that’s it.)   
  
He’s greeted by cold air and the cashier’s cheery voice and Keith has the urge to melt into a puddle of goo, ready to worship whoever created air-conditioners for the rest of his life.   
  
Something infinitely cooler touches his skin and he yelps, eyes flipping open and glaring at Shiro as he pulls the can away from Keith’ cheek, grinning at him (all teeth and faint hair down his jaw and eyes).   
  
He gives him a few choice words that would make his father roll in his grave but Shiro simply smiles cheekily, unfazed. Keith grabs the can extended to him and bites his lip as he feels the other’s fingers beneath his own as he takes hold of it.   
  
Keith looks at the package (of the can) and he’s not sure if he what he feels is a punch to the gut or the high of jumping off a cliff at realizing it was his favorite drink.   
  
He feels the weight of amber eyes on him again and he schools his face blank, making for the cashier. There’s another person before him and stands patiently for his turn, ignoring the other’s presence at his back. Keith catches sight of himself on the glass behind the cashier – dark hair normally spiky and unruly, flat and stuck to his skin with sweat and a smudge of dirt on his cheek – and, unable to help himself, looks at Shiro behind him.   
  
God – Keith was twenty-nine and he was still considerably shorter than Shiro, barely reaching his neck and only pride that reminded him that Lance was an inch shorter than Keith that formulated whatever remained of his ego.   
  
Ten years.   
  
Ten long years.   
  
A decade.   
  
That was the last time he had seen Shiro – but it seemed time had favored him more than Keith. He had barely changed: still as broad-shouldered as ever, tanned skin and muscles from head down to Kerb Town, sharp tawny eyes framed by distinct lashes (a Shirogane trademark, if he correctly recalls Shiro’s brother Ryou). His eyes drop back to his own reflection and he frowns, pale skin and the slightly noticeable bags under his eyes.   
  
The man before him steps back, checking on the display set next to the counter and Keith moves on instinct. He bites his lip again as he feels something sturdy behind him and he knows it’s Shiro. He doesn’t look at the glass reflection and simply counts from one to one hundred, ignoring the feel of Shiro’s jeans trailing under his fingers, or the fact that Keith can smell the cologne off him and – Christ’s tits, seriously – the quiet humming from the man. He knows that if he angles his body one way and he’d be pressed against Shiro’s front and, yes, he could freaking kiss dirt when the cashier called for the next customer and basically pushes the item into the guy’s hand.   
  
Purchases done, Keith downs the entire thing in one go, ignoring Shiro’s chuckle as he sipped from his can and Keith spies and wonders if it’s the Black Paladin brand Shiro loves so much and, ugh, why does he have to be right?   
  
He sighs again, just for the heck of it, and stares at the black convertible parked by the tanks.   
  
“So,” Keith begins, eyeing the scratch on the plate by the rear wheel (another ten-year old mishap, and a reminder not to let Allura drive when she was seven bottles in).   
  
“So…?” Shiro continues, hands on his waist.   
  
Keith crosses his arms and turns to the other, hoping his face doesn’t display the nervousness he feels at what he’s about to suggest. Even when he feels really annoyed by what Lance and Allura had concocted, he still loves them (and he uses the word loosely basing on his current mood) and he really wants to see them…even if he had to suffer through a sixteen-hour ride with his ex.   
  
“We can either go off on our own or we can take the old girl and get there faster.” Keith lays it out, pointed looking at the space between Shiro’s eyes so he doesn’t have to get lulled by the flecks of gold he knows are present in the shades of—   
  
Ahem.   
  
“It’s fine with me,” Shiro answers, voice even and soft and Keith feels sorry for his lips now as he bites them again. “What about you, though?”   
  
Keith’ brows furrow. “What about me?”   
  
Shiro pauses, looks at him with an unreadable expression and exhales a short laugh of disbelief.   
  
“After all these years, you’re still the same.” He says, shaking his head, a smile on his face. Keith scowls.   
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”   
  
“It means what it means.” Shiro says dismissively, waving a hand. “If we go now, we can hit Balmera Peak by sundown. We can take turns on the road.”   
  
Keith wants to protest and drive for the Garrison Port ASAP, en route to New Altea, but even he knows that would be impossible, they’d have to cut on zero sleep for that and almost an entire day ahead of their sail date. Still, the two of them on the road and stopping at Balmera meant they would be staying the night. Keith breathes in deep and nods, wondering why the answering smile on Shiro’s face made him feel heady.   


* * *

  
Keith first meets Shiro when they’re both seventeen and in college. Just having moved to because of his father’s job, Keith spent the first few weeks by himself – getting used to the tall spires and the brightly-lit streets of Arus City, the dark palettes and urban hum of a capital city, unlike the quiet air and lush fields of his home in Oriande. His father’s job as a contractor has him moving from city to city, state to state, and Keith knows that once he graduates from college, they’ll leave Arus for another post - maybe in New Altea or Olkarion, wherever his father’s company wants to throw them.   
  
It takes some time for him to feel comfortable, to stave off the nights that he can’t sleep through as the city lights dance across the ceiling of his dark room. He’d open the doors of his balcony and, feeling a bout of courage, sit himself atop the rails, bare feet dangling.   
  
It was then and there that he meets Takashi and the Shirogane family, as a voice calls out to him as he stares at the city beneath his feet.   
  
“Can’t sleep?” Says the tall man at the balcony next to his, and although it’s dark, there’s light flooding in from the room on the other side and Keith makes out tan skin and thick locks, gold eyes and an easy smile in swathes of light and dark.   
  
He shakes his head, shivering a little as a cold draft swept by. “Too many lights.”   
  
“Huh,” a nod and looks out the city. Keith sees the slope of his nose and the lines of ink carving itself on the other’s arms – or what he could see spiraling out from the tanktop. “new to Arus?”   
  
Keith nods, feeling no need to hide or lie. They’ve been here for almost a month now, and he’s seen his father on friendly terms with their neighbors. “I grew up in Oriande. People fell asleep at seven.”   
  
“Oriande, huh? Heard it’s warmer down south. I’ve been here all my life.” He says and Keith takes in his words, watches as he raises a hand and scratches at the scruff by his jaw. He doesn’t look older than Keith – although his father’s friends had often commented that he looked younger than he should.   
  
Another shiver and Keith rubs his arms and, before he knows it, he hears the other call out and turns to catch a jacket thrown at him across the balcony.   
  
Keith frowns. “There’s no need, I can grab my blanket.”   
  
A chuckle and a wide grin. “Nah, I like bein’ nice.”   
  
For some reason, that pulls a smirk to Keith’ lips. “I somehow feel you’re lying.”   
  
There’s a pause – Keith wonders if he had somehow offended the other – and the other is grinning again, eyes twinkling. “Well, ya got me there. I don’t just throw my jacket at strangers in the cold.”   
  
“Then why did you?” He answers back.   
  
A small smile, never breaking eye contact. A secretive look. “Give that back to me, someday, and maybe I’ll tell you. Over coffee. Or beer, your choice.”   
  
And Keith may be seventeen, a bit clueless about a few things and not exactly the world’s most social butterfly, but he knows what the gleam in those eyes and the sliver of canine in that grin and he feels something thrum in his veins.   
  
He smiles wide at the other, cheekily if he may. “Maybe I will give it back, someday.”   
  
The other chuckles, shaking his head, as Keith threads his arms into the sleeve of the leather jacket. He feels dwarfed by their size, but there’s a warmth around him that eases his form and feels the telltale signs of incoming sleep. There’s a comforting scent about the jacket – not unlike roasted espresso beans and cedar – and he doesn’t notice that he had bent his head and taken a deep sniff.   
  
Realizing what he had done, Keith raises his head and finds the other watching him, eyes soft, expression pensive.   
  
“Hey.”   
  
The other makes an answering hum.   
  
“You do realize that I may never give this back to you ever again, right?”   
  
“Brat.”   
  
He knows he should feel offended by the nickname, but the carefree way it was said has him wanting to smile. Keith hides his grin under the collar of the jacket.   
  
“Keith.”   
  
“What?”   
  
He makes his voice louder. “My name is Keith.”   
  
The other nods, smiling back. “Shiro.”   
  
The night grows colder but Keith doesn’t feel it, ensconced in dark leather. Silence fills the space between them, but it’s not constricting or awkward. Keith and Shiro spends the night staring out the balcony and into the sleepless gargantuan of Arus, the midnight blue sky disappearing in pastels of purple and white over the horizon.   


* * *

Keith jumps into the driver’s seat, turning the key and feeling the car engine rumble to life before quieting down to a smooth hum. He turns the AC on and pulls the shade over – he’s all for feeling the wind in his face but there was barely any wind and the sun would murder him. The door to the passenger’s side opens and he avoids watching Shiro fit himself and his long legs into the front seat. The leather seat crinkles under the weight and, like clockwork, Shiro pushes the seat back to make more space for himself (almost by instinct and Keith swallows, reminded of a million memories like this and his throat feels like the craggy cliffs of the Balmera mountain range.)  
  
“God,” Shiro says after the seat is adjusted enough for his form. He turns to Keith with a disbelieving face. “Don’t tell me you haven’t taken out that stupid bottle under the seat.”   
  
Keith prides himself in his silence, even if his face feels glows bright red at the — okay, fine, he hasn’t thrown it out yet. He tells himself he would get to it, eventually (as usual, he never does).   
  
“Man, this thing has been under the seat for ten years. Seriously.”   
  
“Shut up.” Keith replies. If anyone was picking that stupid bottle out, it was Lance. He had stuffed that under seat one night, years ago, in a drunken haze. He shakes his head, remembering that night.   
  
He waits for Shiro to put his seat belt on, and once seeing it done, he’s about to put the car into reverse when he feels a tap on his arm and Shiro looks at him pointedly.   
  
“What?”   
  
“No need to run to the bathroom? Maybe grab a few chips?”   
  
“Fuck you, Shiro.”   
  
Said fucker grins, all teeth and smiles, and Keith purses his lips to stop himself from grinning back as he finally pulls out of Marmora station and on to the road.   
  
He turns the AC up as he feels the sweat stick to his shirt, ignoring his fingers bumping against Shiro’s as the other fiddles with the radio. He doesn’t pull his hand away as if burned, not when Shiro opens the dashboard compartment and pulls out the stacks of albums Keith has in there—   
  
As if he had not expected anything else to be in that compartment. As if he had not expected to see anything else but the old rock albums he would continually deny to love. As if he had not expected to pull out that one album he knows Keith loves.   
  
The knuckles of his hand on the wheel grows white as he stares resolutely forward, at the wind beating sand and against the windshield, at the small rocks dotting the street, at the weathered stones rising up to tall heights and the almost infinite savannah before them.   
  
  
_(and if you want the moon,_ _  
_ _I swear I’ll bring it down for you._ _  
_ _Let me into your heart.)_ _  
_

* * *

There were flashing lights – multicolored and bright – and Keith squints, unable to see or even hear the words Lance was saying, even if the guy was literally in front of him. He watches him pull Allura into the crowd at the dance floor and Keith isn’t even sure he can hear himself when he calls out to them. The music is blaring through large speakers, the club reverberating around him and he feels a bit out of place.  
  
In spite of how he usually seems, he wasn’t born yesterday. He can be comfortable in a club but, and the blond tufts of Lance’s hair finally disappears into the crowd, it’d pretty much suck to be in a club by yourself. He feels an arm around his shoulder, and he turns and sees Shiro grinning at him.   
  
Keith smiles back, wanting to say something but stopping – it was pointless, no one could hear him. As if understanding, Shiro pulled him away from the crowd – through the dancing bodies pressing against and some girl’s hair in his mouth – and he’s out of the club and into Arus’ sleepless yet quieter streets. Bright lamplights replace the club strobes and his eyes (and ears) adjust to the new environment, filled with car horns and engine noise and human chatter in normal volume.   
  
He doesn’t hide the sigh of relief that escapes his mouth, and Shiro laughs – a deep sound that seemed to echo from inside, comforting and warm – and Keith elbows him in the side.   
  
His elbow hits the lower part of the other’s abdomen – he wasn’t small, Shiro was just abnormally tall – and Shiro ruffles his hair. Keith makes an annoyed noise and responds by pushing Shiro away, barely escaping the hold of Shiro’s arm. He’s not angry, though. He never is, when it comes to Shiro.   
  
“You okay?” The taller of the two asks, grinning. Keith smiles back, eyes trailing the scar that ran across his nose. He can still remember the day it happened – weeks from when they first met and Shiro had introduced him to his other friends Allura and Lance and it was the first Friday night Keith spent outside the four walls of his bedroom, just a couple of kids having fun when a drunken man with a temper started – and he tries to hide the concern in his eyes every time he sees it.   
  
“Mmhmm.” Keith answers. “I have no idea where Allura and Lance are, though. Couldn’t hear them.”   
  
“They’ll be fine. I mean, Allura is there so Lance will be fine.” Keith smiles at the message – he can already imagine Allura’ exasperated face when the youngest of their group gets shitfaced and, yet, she can’t seem to find the heart to stop being a mother hen especially when it comes to Lance.   
  
Music from the club seeps into the air, a slight drumbeat in the air and the cool Arus night and Shiro is smiling at him, dressed in a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, rust-colored eyes flashing gold in the lamplight. “Do you wanna walk around?”   
  
Keith doesn’t even have to make himself think of an answer before the word “yes” was out of his lips.   
  
In the eternal Arus City, night was as constant as day – the streets lined with stalls next to bustling restaurants and parlors, crowds and throngs of people bustling down the alley, lit beneath lamps and twinkling lights in tastefully lined in rope. The smell of skewered meat sizzling on grillers clashed with fruity fragrances of cakes and pastries from the local patisseries, the occasional whiff of vanilla and espresso (Allura’ favorite, no doubt) trickling in and Keith swivels his head to follow a server setting out what seemed to be long-bone steaks onto the table.   
  
Shiro sticks to his side as they walk through the bazaar, his arm warm around Keith’ shoulders and, yeah, this would be the time that Lance would run a bit ahead to snap a shot of them with his camera, Keith rolling his eyes at the tell-tale gleam in their friend’s eyes as he smiles conspiratorially at him. Shiro would smile goodnaturedly, as if anything else would be unnatural, his arm still around Keith.   
  
And Keith—   
  
He wouldn’t want it any other way.   
  
Not with the scent of cedar against his side, encasing him in a bubble of comfort.   
  
He wouldn’t raise his own hand to clutch at Shiro’s. He wouldn’t wrap his arm around the taller man’s waist. He wouldn’t press his nose against the other’s side and close his eyes. He wouldn’t look up at him beneath his fringe and see those molten-brown eyes already looking down.   
  
But he wanted to. Christ, he needed to.   
  
Yet, it was just the two of them now. No Lance around to grin and smirk. No Allura to adjust the fall of her hair and look at them, pensive and curious.   
  
Just Shiro, cedar and the warmth of his arm around Keith’ shoulders.   
  
They pass by an open stall, where an old man was setting up his little wares, and there was a radio by the side – clunky old little thing – a song playing, a little distorted yet the voice distinct, and Keith slows down.   
  
He makes a show of checking out the wares, not wanting Shiro to know that he stopped because the song playing was stupid.   
  
It was stupid and nonsensical, cliché and everything Keith says he doesn’t like in music.   
  
Except it wasn’t.   
  
Not to him.   
  
Any hope of Shiro not noticing goes out of the window as Keith hears him hum, then slowly word out the lyrics and he looks up at a knowing smile and eyes far, far too soft—   
  
He scowls and tries to push away but Shiro doesn’t look away and he doesn’t let go.   
  
“I’ll take you to paradise,” Shiro sings, a fleshed out baritone voice that makes something throb in Keith’ chest, but his smile is wide and happy and his eyes are bright. “Ain’t a star that’s too far.”   
  
But the idiot – the big idiot grins wide and kneels on the ground and opens his arms to Keith and serenades him in that strong, loud voice of his that continually makes people turn their heads and Keith can’t stop himself from smiling and laughing and singing along because—

Because it’s a cold night in Arus and Allura and Lance are off somewhere and the old man was laughing to himself at Shiro’s antics and the smell of freshly baked apple pie makes his stomach growl and because the lamp lights are mapping constellations in amber and whiskey and Keith was in love.

He was so fucking in love.  
  
With a big oaf who could do squats while reading pop literature; with an idiot who buys four packs of cup noodles instead of one because “no, Keith you can’t have too many”; with a generous dolt who gives a quiet, unassuming neighbor his own jacket because he was cold; with this man who has hearts for eyes when he talks about his little brother. 

And Takashi Shirogane is on his knees, singing, smiling and Keith can’t help his own heart from oscillating between heartbreak and heartache.  


* * *

He doesn’t know how he manages to keep on breathing steadily when the chorus hits, as the lyrics trail and echo around them and Keith stubbornly refuses to look at Shiro. If he closes his eyes, he can still make out the lights, he can still remember the taste of the crust of the apple pie they bought after, can still remember the way Shiro had placed his hand on his face and thumbed away the whip cream on his cheek and just stared at him like he was something...something Keith doesn’t want to name, not now, not when there was a cavern of a decade between them.  
  
He doesn’t know if Shiro is thinking about that night as the song continues to play, doesn’t know if he’s thinking about the way his arm felt around Keith, the way his voice cracked at the end of the last chorus because he was laughing too hard, the way Keith pushed him until he fell to the ground and they accidentally broke one of the wares and Keith had stood there laughing as they both pulled cash out of their pockets.   
  
It was stupid, and foolish and naïve and—and—   
  
“How have you been?” The question is unexpected and Keith is pulled out of his bitterness for a moment, turning to Shiro. He quickly looks away, unwilling to allow the other man to see the emotions running across his face.   
  
How have you been, he asks. As if they haven’t seen each other in the last ten years. As if they haven’t spoken to one another in the last decade. As if Keith hadn’t avoided every chance to meet him – in a birthday or party or other – in the last ten years. As if Keith hadn’t known that Shiro was there, that he was doing fine, that he was happy and Keith held back the acrimony.   
  
“Fine.” He answers with an answer spoken by a hundred truths and a million lies and he hopes it’s not seething with the bitterness he’s using to cover up the—   
  
Whatever. He’s fine. He’s been fine for ten years.   
  
The silence between them becomes even more oppressive at the wake of his subdued and tightly-restrained response and he feels the eyes on him turn a bit colder and guarded, feels the man beside him tense and—   
  
“Tired.” He corrects himself with the truth.   
  
It eases – the atmosphere – and Shiro relaxes. The hand he has on the wheel isn’t a vice grip, and Keith shifts the gear as he speeds up a bit on the empty road, passing by a few cattle by an outcrop to the west. The song trails to an end before another tracks plays, a much quieter one, and Shiro’s voice is tinged with concern. “Work?”   
  
Keith wants to shrug, to deflect the question, or the confirmation, because how does he say that he’s tired, that juggling a demanding job and the bills from his father’s two-year stay in the hospital and that, sometimes, he just wants to sit and scream? How does he say that he’s exhausted of crawling through the days since his father’s death, since the funeral and picking up the pieces of his life after that? How does he say that he’s spent, with all the mornings that have turned to nights and to mornings again, deadline after deadline, and the special handwritten invitation to his father’s funeral hidden in the depths of his cabinet, the one written by his own hand, the name “Takashi Shirogane” barely legible as Keith had to stifle sobs and wracking cries, hand shaking, tears dripping into the white sheet?   
  
But life goes on.   
  
Life doesn’t stop for one man’s sorrows. The world doesn’t stop spinning because a heart is broken.   
  
He deletes the unsent messages in his phone, he throws away the unstamped letters and he breathes in deep on the days that he feels like he’s about to fall apart and, sometimes, only breathing keeps him intact.   
  
“Yeah,” Keith answers. “Work, and stuff. You know?”   
  
Shiro smiles back at him, when Keith turns, and he allows himself a moment to take it all in: the thick brows that are set evenly, the eyes that could cut stone in their rage (and could glow with a heat that traces the lines of Keith’ soul embedded onto his skin), the lips that could form a smile and sing cliché lyrics and, in a moment of foolishness (or courage, a voice in his head says – it sounds ridiculously like Allura) Keith smiles back and whiskey shines and crinkles.   
  
In the few hours that make up the distance between Marmora Boulevard and Balmera Peak, Shiro falls asleep in two, a soft ballad playing through the car speakers. The warmth of the afternoon sun seeping in through the windshield and repelled by the AC and the occasional line of gazelles crossing the road that has him skidding to a stop, has him turning to the other.

Maybe he stares a little too much at the lashes that hide tawny-eyes, at the lines on his face (faint, almost invisible), the crinkles he knows will be there when Shiro’ smiles, at the slope of his nose and he intimately knows how that feels against his skin.

The gazelles have crossed and he resumes his drive and his heart returns to the backburner along with the locked chest of everything in the last ten years and maybe, one day, he’ll have that moment of foolishness (courage) again and be stupid (brave) enough to open it.  
  
Four or so hours before they arrive at Balmera Peak, Shiro wakes up and insists to switch. Keith may have argued about being able enough to handle it but he ends up relenting, not when those eyes are on him again and he sits on the passenger’s side and not at the back because he’s not that much of an asshole, even when the leather of the car seat is warm and smells like cedar.   
  
He steals glances at the other, at the lines of ink that dance from shoulder to forearm. “You?”   
  
Shiro turns to him, an eyebrow raised.   
  
He doesn’t want to repeat it, it took everything he had to ask it, but it escapes his lips anyway. “How have you been?”   
  
He avoids looking at Shiro’s eyes, doesn’t want to see what expression runs through them – rage, hurt, bitterness, an apathy that would cut him into too many pieces for him to ever pick up again – and settles with watching the thick, brown locks settle against the skin of his forehead, still the same.   
  
Shiro is quiet, pensive even, and Keith wouldn’t begrudge him to leave his question unanswered, but when Shiro does respond – his words are breathed out too finely for him to make out the emotion behind them.   
  
“Tired.”   
  
— and somewhere, inside, a part of Keith wants to know if this little question they’ve asked each other is about the present or something else, if the weight of the story behind that one word was the weight of a hundred memories and feelings, a million ghosts of the touches and looks and smiles they’ve shared or to the past that they’ve viciously beat into the darkest corners of their souls, unwilling to let a sliver of light on them.   
  
Keith closes his eyes and settles himself, almost smelling the trail of nicotine in the air, and allows himself to sink into god-sent slumber.   
  
Then, as if a second later, he feels a hand on his shoulder. It’s warm, firm but not painfully so and the same hand maps his cheek up to his forehead and he feels it brushing the hair away and Keith opens his eyes to see Shiro turned to him, meeting his gaze.   
  
He expects embarrassment and that sort.   
  
What he gets is a simple smile, a quiet “we’re here” as if Keith was still asleep (and maybe there’s some truth in that perhaps – in the years of his adolescence, where sleep trailed at the edges of his feet).   
  
He sits up and stretches, looking outside and sees the small town, decrepit-looking motel and the car shop by the side, the stalls of merchants dotting the sides. Balmera Peak, says the dingy sign and Keith steps out of the car, turns to see Shiro heading to the reception outside the motel. He rubs the sleep away from his eyes, tries to comb his hair into some semblance of normalcy (even if it will always be in vain).   
  
“For two?” Asks the man behind the reception and Shiro nods. Keith stands beside him, not touching, save for the trail of his arm against the other’s.   
  
“We got ‘em ready, but they ain’t deluxe, kid. Standard only.”   
  
Shiro turns his head to him, and his face and eyes are blank and Keith sighs. It’s a bad idea. A momentously, gigantic and explosively bad idea but this day had been bad ideas sorted on top of bad ideas and Keith just wants to get this entire trip over.   
  
He nods, not wanting to voice out his response, and maybe something flits through the amber gaze on him but he doesn’t stay to notice, walking back to the car to pull out their (his and Shiro’s, not theirs, as in together, not at all) bags.   
  
Keith pulls the key from the ignition and opens the trunk while Shiro deals with the registration. He could make up whatever excuse he wants as to why they’re sharing a bed, Keith doesn’t really care right now. He just wants to eat and pass out and disappear.   
  
He pulls out his bag first, the one with his casual clothes as the other bag had his suit and he doesn’t want to mess it up since it was recently pressed, and sets his bag on the ground. He’s contemplating about closing the trunk and letting Shiro pull his own bag out when he sighs to himself, he’s not a brat, not a child anymore and pulls out the other’s duffel bag.   
  
Something crinkles and he turns the bag around and, there, hanging by the lock, is an old lion key chain.   
  
And, suddenly, he’s nineteen again, scrawny and awkward and in love and his breath hitches. Maybe he slams the trunk close a little too forcefully. Maybe he drops Shiro’s bag by the other’s feet a little to unceremoniously. Maybe he looks into the other’s concerned gaze a little too honestly.   
  
Or maybe he’s still that scared boy who can’t face the truth as he turns away and makes for their hotel room.   
  
“Keith.”   
  
And he stops, because it’s the first time Shiro has spoken his name today. He stops because it’s the first time he’s heard his own name trace those lips in the last decade. He stops because it’s Shiro and he can’t say no, not without crawling back up to the parapets.   
  
He turns his head, hoping that’s enough because he doesn’t have the strength to look at Shiro in the eye. Not now, not after that.   
  
The bag is held in a hand, the key chain swaying slightly – the lion gone from its bright yellow to a dark one in time, the slight gash by the tail from rubbing against leather, the cheap quality – and he swallows.   
  
“Yeah?” He asks, hoping his voice is strong enough because it’s the only thing strong about him at this point.   
  
Shiro doesn’t answer yet, as if juggling on whether he wants to or not, but the man breathes deep – chest slightly expanding – and his voice is soft, warm and tender and everything Keith does not expect after all these years.   
  
“Your father…Allura told me. After. She told me a month after the ceremony was over. It was by accident, I’m sure and…”   
  
Keith swallows again.   
  
“If…if you had told me, I would have been there. I just wanted you to know that.”   
  
Keith nods, it’s the only thing he can do, and he continues to the room, ignoring the itch in his eyes or the fact that his heart is in his throat or that his vision turns blurry and only heartache keeps him standing. 

* * *

It was probably eleven or twelve in the evening, or maybe even one or two in the morning – Keith had lost count after the third bottle and the second round of that dance-off with Lance. His vision is bordering on flimsy now, but he doesn’t care as the laughter bubbles up his chest and he chuckles as he follows Shiro up the stairs to his bedroom, watches the other miss a step and tumble into the landing, all his birthday gifts falling to the floor and the bigger man just laughs even more. Keith climbs up with the help of the wall, decorated with the mandatory embarrassing childhood photos of a chubby six-year old Shiro, and Keith can’t help but coo at him, still on his knees and laughing.  
  
The door across Shiro’s room opens and Ryou’s unamused face peeks out — so like his brother, if just half a decade younger — and tells his older brother to shut up before slamming back shut.   
  
It only serves to make them both laugh even harder.   
  
“Come on, big guy.” Keith says, once he had gotten himself back in control, ambling up to pull Shiro’s arm up. Honestly, there was nothing _that_ funny about the situation but alcohol did make everything ten times more hilarious for some reason. “Alright, birthday boy, let’s go before you start drooling. C’mon, you know your dad hates it when you guys mess the carpet up.”   
  
“not drunk,” Shiro answers, slightly slurring, waving a hand at him and Keith helps him up as he stands. He stands for a second, before leaning against the wall with an audible thud, eyes wide. “Mmkay, maybe a little drunk.”   
  
“Yeah, uh huh.” Keith agrees, unsure as to what he was agreeing in the first place, and slowly starts to pick the gifts up – making sure not to bow too deeply before his already questionable sense of balance (made even more doubtful with alcohol) decided to test itself out.   
  
“Wait, lemme help ya.” The other says, snaking an arm around Keith’ waist and leaning into him as his uneven coordination almost topples them.   
  
“I got it, I got it. Sheesh, dude, chill before you get us both killed.” He says and Shiro makes a negating sort of noise, as if the thought disgusts me.   
  
“No, you don’t get to die yet.” Shiro says, still not letting go of Keith as they slowly make their way into his bedroom. It wasn’t Keith’ first time inside his best friend’s room – he’s been here often, his dad allowing it knowing it was just next door – and he sets his friend down on his bed, ignoring the mess of blankets and shoes and the occasional underwear on the hamper. He turns on the lamp, watches the amber light pour into the room and piles the gifts on the table by the dresser.   
  
Shiro flops into the bed with his arms abreast and his eyes follow Keith around his room. The alcohol is still thrumming in his veins, his balance occasionally fragile, but he’s extremely mindful of that gaze on him, mindful of the flush of red across Shiro’s cheeks and the swath of skin on display as his shirt had ridden up when he had laid back, tanned and tempting and just the entire idea of Shiro in bed, arms open and looking willing and content and that stupid, stupid smile on his lips and his eyes glowing and he’s everything Keith wanted, wanted with a passion not like any other.   
  
“Whattya lookin’ at?” He asks, crossing his arms, squinting at the birthday celebrant.   
  
He simply smiles and shakes his head and sits up, hair askew. “Hey, it’s not over yet.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“My birthday.”   
  
Keith chuckles. “Uh, it is, actually. It’s two fourt…no, two fiftee…two something already.”   
  
Shiro shakes his head, smile too wide to be anything but innocent. “No, new rule. It’s still my birthday. So, that means you get to do what I want.”   
  
He smiles good-naturedly, rolling his eyes. “Alright, alright, birthday boy. Sheesh. At least Allura and Lance are home already, or else we wouldn’t have stopped with that Twister game.”   
  
Shiro’s eyes widen and they glow and Keith feels alarm rising. “No, no more Twister.”   
  
The other pouts instead and Keith chuckles, eyeing the pile of gifts by the table. He sees the one he had bought – in a hurry because he was being an idiot and what kind of friend was he to forget his own best friend’s birthday? – and that stupid lion keychain had pulled a smile on the other’s face and had made his throat go dry (and probably was the reason why Keith downed an entire bottle by himself).   
  
Shiro follows his gaze and Keith shrugs. “Stupid gift.”   
  
“No, it isn’t. I like it.” Says the other and Keith smiles.   
  
“Yeah, don’t lie. I know you hate the color.” He says and smiles wide as Shiro blushes again. Gods, he looks so beautiful like that—   
  
“Okay, so maybe I hate the color, but hey, it’s still cute. Plus, it came from you.”   
  
Keith frowns, not wanting to think of the implications and the subtext behind those words. “Whatever, I’ll give you a better gift soon.”   
  
There was something in the way – after Keith had spoken those words – that Shiro had looked at him, that same unreadable expression in his eyes. The lamplight is low and soft, and it eases the lines of Shiro’s sharper features, and his eyes are lighter than they usually are, the way they glow in the darkness, the way his smile is softer – almost happy and euphoric – in that moment that has Keith pressing his hand against his belly and he wonders if what’s underneath are flocks of his feelings soaring in a Shiro-shaped sky.   
  
Shiro pats the space next to him and Keith, fear and hesitation and hope itching to crawl out of his lips, slowly makes his way and sits down next to the other, and he smells like cedar, his bed smells like cedar and the room smells like cedar and it’s not unlike the first time they met, with the other’s jacket around him, ensconced in a warmth that promised to stay forever.   
  
“Had a good birthday?” He asks, genuinely curious.   
  
“Yeah, best birthday I had.” And maybe, at any other time, Keith would roll his eyes and call him out on his bluff, or maybe he’d gang up with Lance and they’d pinch Shiro’s cheek and pretend to coo at him.   
  
Right now, though, all he sees is his own reflection staring back at him in Shiro’s eyes.   
  
He wants to break away, he wants to inch closer and bridge the distance, he wants to run right out of the room and disappear and he wants to crawl himself into the space between Shiro’s arms until nobody could make out where he ends and the other begins.   
  
“Of course, it was a ‘Do All The Things You Want’ party,” he deflects, repeating Lance’s own words a few hours ago. Keith wonders, for a moment, if he’ll ever have the strength to voice out the truth.   
  
Shiro doesn’t respond, keeps on staring, and the way he stares—   
  
God help him, Shiro stares at him like he’s something important, something precious, something irreplaceable and—   
  
“Do all the things you want, huh?” Shiro asks, but Keith doesn’t answer, or is not given the opportunity—   
  
Not when Shiro leans forward and presses his lips against his.   
  
And, contrary to what the movies say, there are no fireworks, no shooting stars streaking through the night sky, no bottles of champagne popping open, no auroras shining heavensward or purifying rain bathing them in their green-white glow.   
  
There is whiskey in Shiro’s breath, there is warmth in Shiro’s touch, there is Shiro’s lips pressed against his, there are Shiro’s hands reverently holding his face, there are Shiro’s eyes closed just as Keith’ and he falls from the precipice he’s been holding himself on for too long, finding purchase on Shiro’s shoulders and pushing him away.   
  
Slightly, infinitesimally, because that’s the only distance he could ever bear to set between him and Shiro.   
  
“You’re drunk,” he wheezes out, “you’re drunk and you’re going to regret this, Shiro. You’re drunk and you don’t mean this, not this.” managing to find the right words when his heart is both breaking and celebrating, when he feels his soul soar and fly and fall, when Shiro’s eyes are black with desire and affection and that soft, soft gleam that could bring Keith to his knees and—   
  
“Maybe I am,” Shiro says. Whispers. Ethereal and sibilant, like forbidden promises in the dark of night. “Maybe I am drunk and these are my dreams, or maybe I’m dead and I’m in paradise, or maybe I’m tired with not being honest with myself anymore.”   
  
His hands are still on Keith’ face, and he feels the trail of the other’s fingers on his cheek and the way they skim on his skin, lightning and fire crackling at the edge - the words dripping from Shiro’s lips are trite but the honesty is riveting - Keith painfully aware of every texture of the other’s form on him, of every exhale on his lips, the feel of the other’s scruff on his chin, the slant of Shiro’s nose against his and—   
  
“Maybe I’m ready to admit this.” He continues and Keith doesn’t know what he sees, what Shiro sees when he looks at him, because the reflection in Shiro’s eyes have tears glistening and each and every moment he had withheld from the other out in the open. “Maybe I’m ready to admit that I want you so much.”   
  
He wants to shake his head, in disbelief or in surprise or whatever it is that is hurtling through his chest, but Shiro keeps his hold on Keith’ face firm, as if not wanting to accept it.   
  
“No, I’m ready, Keith. I’m ready to admit it, that I want you so bad that it leaves me aching; that when you smile and laugh, your eyes look like the evening sky and I just want to see you keep on smilin’ and smilin’ until your cheeks hurt; that you look so gorgeous and perfect and everything I want so much like this; that I’m so fucking lucky to have met you and I’m so fucking lucky to have you in my life.”   
  
And he doesn’t – he doesn’t have the strength to take in all those words, the insistent, almost religious way Shiro’s lips curl around the words and, fuck, he’s not crying.   
  
He’s not. He’s fucking not.   
  
A thumb wipes the trail on his cheek and Shiro presses his forehead against his eyes, amber eyes boring into his. “Believe me, Keith. Believe me. I don’t give a shit about fate and destiny, but fucking believe me when I say it’s true for us. I can’t believe anything else, not when there’s you.”   
  
And Keith has to be honest with himself.   
  
Because he’s weak like that. He doesn’t have the strength, or the courage to do otherwise as he surrenders and barrels into this.   
  
(“Believe me,” Shiro bites into his neck, and he feels lips against the lobe of his ear. “Believe me.”)   
  
Not when he’s spent so long holding himself down, keeping every door and crevice shut, letting his once unrequited feelings wallow and curl into a tiny ember under the chains he’s held over his heart. A stronger man would have refused, a stronger man would have not been this willing – but it was Shiro and Keith…he can’t say no, not to him. Not to those heartfelt eyes or to those words bordering on husky or to the way this moment made him feel that every moment, every fucking moment he’s felt heartbroken for a love that would forever hide in the dark, was worth it.   
  
Give me a chance, says that ember in his heart. I could make you happy, it promises and Keith doesn’t know if it’s talking to Shiro or to him, but it’s voice is young and timid, but it continues to burn, to hope, to promise that it’ll do it’s best.   
  
“Please,” Keith says, more breath than word, “don’t forget this. Don’t forget this in the morning. Don’t hate me in the morning. Don’t regret this in the morning.”   
  
Don’t let me go in the morning.   
  
Shiro’s eyes glisten. “Never.”   
  
And those lips are back on his, warm and encompassing and Keith doesn’t let himself hesitate, doesn’t let himself second guess. The hands pushing against Shiro’s shoulders turn to crawl up and curl in his thick locks, the hands on Keith’ face fall to his shoulders, to hold his back as he allows himself to fall. Shiro bends over him, his form gargantuan and massive above him – comforting and safe and warm and his hands in Shiro’s hair grab tighter as his lips are easily pried open, feels the flick of Shiro’s tongue against his, feels the scruff of the other’s beard against his chin and the pleasure, the affection – the emotions he can’t name – crackle through him until the ends and tips of his fingers and toes, curling into a ball of warmth.   
  
And maybe this really is a dream. Maybe this is just his fantasies playing out in the open, mocking him, and Keith was just the fool to do it over and over because-   
  
He needs this.   
  
He needs the feel of the bed against his back, the feel of Shiro’s hands on the skin of his back, the weight of him atop, the gasp at the edge of Shiro’s lips when he parts for air and his eyes burn through the carefully-crafted shields Keith had placed, rendered useless as he bucks against him and the sound Shiro makes — holy fuck — the way his voice goes rough and raspy as he whispers Keith’ name across his lips like a brand, a tattoo, carved into his skin and stitched into his soul.   
  
—And, maybe, in the morning, he’ll forget about it like a cruel stroke of fate; that he’ll forget the way his touch had Keith gasping and trembling, the way his words had brought tears to his eyes, the way Keith held on to him - arms tight, unyielding - as their hips ground against one another, clothes bedamned; maybe he’ll forget all of it and wake in the morning with a clearer view and a laugh and there will be a mask on Keith’ face, ready to let himself crumble in his silence. Maybe it’ll all be just for one night, one drunken night of weakness (or truth), and the rest of their days they’ll spend believing that they haven’t seen each other come undone and fall apart in each other’s arms through the turbulence of love and lust. Maybe.   
  
Perhaps “maybe” is the only thing Keith could ever hope for at this point.   
  
Keith holds the other’s face in hands, just wanting to see Shiro, to want and look and embed every scratch and nuance and pimple and dent into his memory - and he’s tired of putting his shields up and he lets Shiro sees all the pieces he’s holding on to, the moments of secrecy he cherishes intimately and when Shiro dips his head and kisses him - it’s gentle and warm, a promise of both understanding and fear.   
  
The truth is this: Keith and Shiro fall asleep in each other’s arms, cedar hugging them close. The truth is this: Shiro wakes up with a pounding headache and a parched throat and Keith is there, glass of water and analgesic in hand. The truth is this: Shiro downs the glass in a go and he pulls Keith into his arms, back into his bed, like he’s always belonged there (he always had).   
  
The truth is this: Shiro doesn’t forget. He remembers. There are questions upon questions on his tongue - what comes after, what happens next, what they’ve become - but those are questions for the coming days.   
  
The truth is this: Shiro kisses him in the morning, as the dawn light seeps through the blinds, and Keith learns to breathe again. The truth is this: Shiro crawls over him and reaffirms the promises he’s made the night before, repeats the same words as Keith gasps and keens, hands marking the skin on Shiro’s back red, whispers promises to Keith’ ears as he shakes in the aftermath.   
  
(You don’t have to doubt anymore. I’m here. Always. You’ll always make me feel good. Let me make you feel good, too. One day, you’ll learn to see yourself the way I do and you’ll stop wondering why I say the things I do. Let me in, Keith. I’ll make you so fucking happy. Believe me.)   
  
He doesn’t have to be afraid anymore.   
  
Freefall.   
  
Shiro wasn’t letting go. 

* * *

Dusks in the Daizabaal Desert were different to the nights in Arus. Evenings were colder, the total opposite of the heat in the daytime - and Keith regrets changing into a thin cotton shirt for dinner. There was no room service in the motel, and guests usually bought their dinners at the food tents on the other side of the road.  
  
Shiro had already saved them a table and, for a moment he wants to hang back - recalling his earlier emotional outburst - but Keith braves on and plops down on the only seat available: across Shiro.   
  
If his earlier actions affected Shiro, he didn’t show it. The other simply smiled, setting his phone aside. He had changed into a t-shirt as well but the cold didn’t seem to bother him as much as it did Keith - and he almost rolls his eyes at himself. Shiro was always a furnace, warm and cozy. How many times had he used the other as a blanket, a pillow, a makeshift jacket in the frigid cinemas of Arus?   
  
He braves a smile back. There were things brimming beneath the surface, and Keith knew Shiro had so many things to say, to ask, and the fact he didn’t was in consideration for him.   
  
He knows he has to be the one to open that box up. It was unfair, unfair to him, to Shiro, to their friends. The fact that Shiro could stomach sitting here, right now, with him - eyes open and easy, smile welcoming - that uncompromising warmth in full display, was enough to make him sick to the pits of his stomach.   
  
He knows he should, but when the server swings by to set two plates of skewered beef and grilled potatoes and Shiro’s eyes light up in excitement and he shares a grin with Keith, like the ten years could disappear (forgotten), the easiness between them - he can’t. Not now, not after all this time.   
  
Not when he just wants to savor this moment, this little moment of stupidity and, hell, who knows how long he’ll hold on to this moment in the coming days? Who knows how long he can still allow himself to hope, reminisce and dream? To wish he could return to that night, set in an unending loop, over and over?   
  
Seeing Shiro, hearing him talk, seeing the light of his eyes — they were shedding light into fears and hurts and heartaches he swore he had buried beneath necessity, beneath the past years, along with his father’s proud smile and the memory of cedar around him?   
  
But the years do go by, and he’s learned to keep on breathing, and maybe he’ll learn to keep on breathing through this.   
  
They talk. Keith finds the strength to join and talk and ask and laugh. He finds the will to accept this moment and its impermanence.   
  
And Shiro - beautiful, blinding - smiles and laughs and lightly punches him in the shoulder when Keith responds to his snark with wit and—   
  
And a hand is on his cheek, and the flecks of gold gleam in those eyes, and Keith feels a thumb graze his cheek and—   
  
The way those eyes glisten.   
  
_Never,_ they promised once. _Believe me_ .   
  
Keith stands suddenly, his knees hitting the edge of the table, making their plates jump. The stool under him falls but he doesn’t notice, not when the air in his lungs had turned to soot, not when the blood in his veins had turned to lead, not when the constant weight on his chest multiplied, not when Shiro looks at him surprise and concern and the stitches and staples he had to use to put himself back together were breaking apart--   
  
“No, no, no, no.” He whispers, breathes out.   
  
“Keith, hey, calm down,” Shiro says, soothingly, timber low. “Baby, breathe, c’mon.”   
  
“No!” That singular word echoes, like a gunshot, and he feels a million eyes on him, feels his skin prickling, feels the ground beneath him crumble and he doesn’t realize he’s stepping back, away and away and his hands are cold, so cold—

  
“Shit! Uh, here, take it. Keep the change. Keith? Keith, baby, hey, hey.”   
  
He steps away, cold and cold and cold, and there are hands on his face, turning him towards—towards—   
  
“No, Shiro, I said no!”   
  
He pushes the other away, voice echoing with, with, with an emotion he doesn’t know (rage or heartbreak or confusion).   
  
“You don’t get to do that, not now, not after all this time.”   
  
Shiro freezes, as if Keith had dealt him a crush blow.   
  
“Keith—”   
  
“No, no. I was okay. I was fine. I was keeping on. I didn’t have to do this, I didn’t have to feel this way again. I didn’t have to think about this and you come back into my life and, no, you can’t do this. Not after this time.”   
  
Every word that comes out of his lips has Shiro’s eyes turn colder and colder. He opens his mouth, words piling out but Shiro beats him to it.   
  
“I wasn’t the one who walked away. You walked away.”   
  
And that—that hurt, angry, bitter _you_ —used like a knife on him has Keith silent. 

* * *

It was two months after graduation. Two months after they had finished college.  
  
The thing was, Keith knew Shiro had a plan. He had so many ambitions and dreams. He wanted to take over supporting the family, he wanted his father to retire from his career at the military. He wanted to support his brother in his studies. Ryou wanted to be a doctor, and medschool was expensive, but Shiro was determined to see it through. He had plans for his life, and he had continually worked towards them.  
  
Keith was different.  
  
It wasn’t to say that he had no plans—he did, if somewhat vague. He wanted his father to be proud of him. He wanted to make his father feel that all those years of raising a son by himself were worth it. He wanted his friends to be proud of him. He wanted Shiro to be proud of him.  
  
Because Shiro had so many things to offer to the world and to those dreams of his and Keith—the only thing Keith wanted was to make the people he loved happy and proud.  
  
When his father sits him down to talk to him about his company planning to move him to Olkarion, he was ready to stand his ground. He was ready to tell his father “no”. He was ready to ask his father to let him go, let him be his own person and let him find his own path.  
  
His father had been stricken by the words, as if he hadn’t realized that Keith was no longer the four year old boy who hid behind his legs. With tears in his eyes, his father had hugged him tight and bid him good luck. He wasn’t set to leave yet, and he spent the remaining days helping Keith on his set up in Arus, the jobs he’ll apply for and he was ready for all of it.  
  
Ready to embrace the future with Shiro at his side.  
  
He was nineteen and he felt like he was on top of the world.  
  
But the truth was different.  
  
Keith drew up blanks. The jobs he applied for, he found in disinteresting and his heart failed to find something to keep him passionate. On the nights he was with his friends, with Lance and Allura heading into apprenticeships on their own (renowned photographers and two-Michelin star restaurants) and Shiro would just grin and strong-arm their friends in pride, his company ID displaying promotion after promotion because he was brilliant—anyone could see that—and Keith, Keith with no defining talent, no defining trait. He didn’t have Lance’s skill with a kitchen knife, or Allura’s artistic eye or Shiro’s ease at adjusting and adapting to whatever comes at him.  
  
(He only knows that Shiro’s eyes flicker between whiskey and gold in between the lamplight and the four P.M. sunlight; he only knows the hitches in Shiro’s breathing as he trails kiss after kiss down the other’s navel; he only knows the way Shiro’s lips curl as he whispers the words “I love you” against his ear, like he was born for it, like he was born for Keith).  
  
A day comes when Shiro asks Keith to meet him in a secluded area in the park. On his way to it, following the footpath he remembers, he’s still lost in purpose, recalling only how they both stumbled into this area by themselves and he and Shiro had made it into their little nest.  
  
Keith enters the clearing and there’s a gorgeous set of food on the grass, nestled on a blanket. There were little lights hung from the trees’ branches surrounding the tall grass and the evening sky painted palettes of puce and marigold against the backdrop of stars—   
  
And Shiro was there. Gods, he was there and he looked gorgeous and stunning and perfect. He was there, dressed to the nines, every fantasy Keith had come to life, his hair neatly combed back, a wide loving smile on his face and his eyes glowing in the candlelight and he had held Keith’ face in his hands and had given him the sweetest kiss, a kiss that cemented itself into the recesses of his mind.  
  
“I love you,” Shiro said, whispered, promised. “I love you so much and I want you so much and I have never been so sure in my entire life.”  
  
And Keith — on those words — on the promises beneath those words, buckles and steps away. “What?”  
  
That look of utter joy in Shiro’s eyes had been paralyzing, the way he had pulled Keith’ hand up and kissed every knuckle, how he had stepped forward and kissed every sliver of skin on Keith’ face until he was a ticking bomb ready to explode.  
  
“You’re not just a first love, a passing phase for me, Keith. Sometimes, I wake up in the morning and I still can’t believe I have you in my life.”  
  
And that’s the entirety of Shiro—clumsy words, trite-sounding, but the intensity beneath them speaks of truth, of honesty. Shiro meant every word he said, no matter how clumsy and crude and gauche and beautiful and perfect the way he said them.  
  
“What’s—? Baby, this is beautiful, but what?” He had asked because this display was too much for Keith, too much for a simple night, a simple dinner if that’s what Shiro was planning.  
  
“And I know we’re young, and that we still have the future before us, but I’ve never been so sure in my entire life, Keith.”  
  
And Shiro—perfect, blustering Shiro—in his black suit and white dress shirt, with that bluestar — the little blue flower that Shiro once said resembled Keith’ eyes, the same flower that dotted the fields of his childhood home of Oriande, inserted on the front of his jacket, with eyes that promised him let me love you, let me love you forever and ever, I'll walk through fire for you, just let me love you, had fallen to a knee and a ring in the air.  
  
And Keith—  
  
Who was barely nineteen, lost in purpose of life and in love with a too honest man. Who continually battled between jealousy and isolation as he listens to Shiro and Allura and Lance discuss what they want to do with their lives. Who had a father in a different country, who picks up after every trail hoping to find a semblance of where he belonged. Who called Oriande, Arus, New Altea, Olkarion and Galra home. Who only cared about the way those rust-coloured eyes softened and smiled.  
  
Who had a future so bright and so wide, bumbling and crashing into him and leaving him stranded as he’s hounded at every corner by all possibility that he feels himself choking and gasping and running out of air.  
  
  
  
  
  
He walked away.  
  
He ran.

* * *

“I wasn’t the one who walked away. You walked away.”  
  
Without looking back. 

* * *

[Baby, please pick up, please, please. Keith, please don’t this. Don’t shut me out, please. Let me in, please.]  
  
End call.   
  
[Please, please, you can’t do this to me. Keith, please, I love you so fucking much. Please trust me. Please.]   
  
End call.   
  
[Don’t leave me alone, Keith. Baby, baby, you’re breaking my heart. Please, let me hear your voice. Oh Gods, please, please.]   
  
End call.   
  
[Why don’t you believe me? Baby, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please let me in. Please, don’t end it like this. Not like this.]   
  
End call.   
  
[I love you, Keith Kogane. I love you so fucking much that I hate myself for letting it consume me. I love you so fucking much it hurts, I can’t breathe and I can’t stop myself. I love you so much, so much that nothing and no one after you will ever be able to compare. I love you so much that whoever gets to keep you better fucking _deserve_ it.]   
  
End call.   
  
His thumb slides from the button and his arm falls to the side, phone held in limp fingers. They struggle for a moment, before the phone falls into the rushing waters of the fountain. Keith doesn’t see anything before him, simply stands in the middle of the airport as his heart breaks over and over and over until he stops asking himself if he could remember to breathe on his own again.   
  
Maybe the faces that pass him by look on in concern, but he doesn’t care. The only thing echoing in his ears is the pained, heartbroken words of Takashi Shirogane - the almost-sobbing way he whispers Keith’ name - as if pretending to be strong is the only thing he could do now—the jagged and thorny words of “I love you” over and over.   
  
Overhead, the monitor’s screen display changes.   
  
ARUS TO OLKARION   
  
FLIGHT VLD15   
  
TERMINAL 4   


* * *

The door to their room opens quietly. Funny, Keith expected it to bang resoundingly against the wall. They don’t though, creaking slightly before he hears the lock click. Close. Shut. He doesn’t need to turn. He can feel Shiro’s presence behind him.  
  
Only the lamp is on, casting shadows on the drab wallpaper (crinkling in corners, ripped apart in others). Keith exhales quietly, nose stuffy, chest hurting and hands deathly cold.   
  
“You walked away from us, Keith. _You_ . You made the choice to walk away.”   
  
He did. He fucking did.   
  
He did without looking back, even if it had cost him the best thing that had ever happened to him; even if it had cost him the happiest days of his entire life.   
  
“Look at me, Keith.”   
  
_I love you so much, Keith Kogane._   
  
“Keith.”   
  
And he gasps, turning around. He looks into Shiro’s eyes, his face, flashing with rage, shaking with anger and glistening with heartbreak.   
  
“I thought we had something special, something so special between us. I thought we could have made those choices together but you left. You ran. You walked away.” Shiro’s words were spoken viciously, each syllable a stab into the gaping maw of Keith’ long buried heart. “And you know why? Because you’re a fucking coward. You were fucking scared and you ran. You fucking ran from me. You didn’t ask me, you didn’t think about it, you didn’t think about us. You left us. You left me.”   
  
And Shiro was shaking, he was shaking and his words were raspy, his voice rougher than usual, and his hand was trembling and Keith knows he looks no different, knows that his own heart is clenching just the same way Shiro’s did; knows that Shiro couldn't push the air into his lungs, knows that asphalt and glass and midnight blue memories crawled and carved itself into his throat and he can't breathe.   
  
“We promised each other to never let go. I promised to never let go. You promised to never let go, but you did. You let me go and it fucking hurts.”   
  
Keith tries to breathe, he really does, but every time he pulls up air he only pulls in glass.   
  
“I loved you so much and I still love you so much and it hurts, Keith. It fucking hurts. Ten fucking years and it still feels like I can’t breathe and I can’t scream. Why? Why? Why does it hurt to love you?"   
  
And the sob that follows Shiro’s words has Keith standing up, his entire body shaking with all the things he kept hidden, with all the nightmares he’s placed under lock and key, with all the ‘what if’s’ and ‘could haves’ over the last decade.   
  
“Because we were young!” He answers, doesn’t know if he shouts it or gasps it or whispers it. He doesn't fucking care. “Because I was nineteen and I had no idea what to do with my goddamn life. You want the truth? You were right. I was scared, I was fucking scared, okay? You had this plan, you had an entire life in front of you and I had nothing. I had nothing in my life. I had no plans. I had no goals. I was fucking useless, okay? But I wanted you. I loved you. I fucking loved you so much that it hurts. It hurts me, too.”   
  
Shiro was still, breathing heavily, but Keith didn’t care. The floodgates had been opened, and all the deflections and avoidance - every lie he came up to escape Lance and Allura’ prodding - they all fell apart in the fury of the words tumbling out of his mouth.   
  
(You had me, they said - whiskey and amber and gold - you didn't have nothing. You had _me_ .)   
  
“I wanted to marry you. I wanted to be with you for-fucking-ever. I wanted to be your husband, your wife, whatever the fuck you wanted me to be because you were the most important thing to me and I can’t bear it if one day that will change.”   
  
“What?” Shiro’s voice was disbelieving.   
  
“I was scared. Yes, I’m a coward, Shiro. You were right. You loved a coward. I was a fucking coward because I was afraid that one day, one fucking day, things will change. We were barely adults, we had the world in front of us and we were already planning to be together for the rest of our lives but what if things changed?”   
  
His voice hitches, words crunching the glass down his throat. “What if, one day, you’ll hate me for chaining you down? What if, one day, you’ll wake up and realize that you’re better off somewhere else, better off with someone else? What if, one day, you’ll look at me and think ‘ _why did I chain myself to someone useless and indecisive, who couldn’t make up his own damn mind with what he wants to do with his life_ ’? What if, one day, you’ll start hating me for that? What if, one day, I’ll start feeling the same thing? What if, one day, I’ll feel choked by it that I’d struggle to be free? We had the entirety of our lives before us and I didn’t want to rob you of the better things that you could have.”   
  
(—and he’s terrified and frightened, enough to chill the very bones of his body, at the thought of Shiro starting to resent and hate him. He’s scared of it to the point that he sometimes wakes up at night, heart beating fast, eyes open and pointed at the ceiling and he’ll notice in the morning that the tears haven’t stopped.)   
  
“Because,” and Keith gasps, doesn’t know where he can still pull out more of the truths tumbling out, “even if it kills me, I’d rather let you go than have you hate me. I’d rather let us go, even if I can’t sleep at night and it takes everything I have to keep on going, I’d do all of it again if it means that we don’t turn to hating each other.”   
  
(Because promises are good and all, but isn’t that what people do - make promises, only to break them? Sometimes, love turns to hate - or worse, love turns to apathy, two sides of the same coin, and he’s seen it. He’s seen it enough and he can’t bear the thought of Shiro growing to resent him. It was different to hate someone because you hurt them, but it was worse to hate someone because you resent them. You resent the times you’ve shared, you resent the choices you’ve made, you resent the years wasted. Keith feels his knees tremble at the thought.)   
  
The silence that follows is thick, and Keith feels spent, his eyes raw and his palms hurt and he realizes that his fingernails had been biting into his skin hard enough to bleed.   
  
He doesn’t look at Shiro. He doesn’t want confirmation of the damage he’s done. Maybe, if he could hold on to that easy smile over dinner, he can start fixing himself. He’ll never be truly intact, yes, but it was the best he could do. That was all he could ever hope to do.   
  
There’s a sigh, and an exhale, as if Shiro was shedding some weight and he could breathe in relief and a part of Keith is grateful, even if it is drowning in the flood of misery.   
  
Steps echo and he expects the door to open and close forever, and Keith had learned to ignore the stab of pain for each door closed in his face and—

And Shiro is hugging him, tight.  
  
Keith is still as stone, unbelieving, as his nose is pressed against the cloth of Shiro’s shirt, as he feels strong, muscled arms wrap around him and hold him tight, tight enough to hurt, to constrict but the only thing Keith feels is his own beating heart racing, and he hears Shiro’s heart echoing, and before he knows it, he sags against the other, arms just as tight around Shiro.   
  
“You idiot,” Shiro whispers, voice low and pained and reverent. “You _fucking_ idiot. Why did I have to love the world’s greatest idiot?”   
  
His vision is blurry, the lights and shapes coalescing into forms he couldn’t recognized and he feels warmth trickle down his cheeks and he doesn’t realize he’s whispering “I’m sorry” over and over and over.   
  
“I’m scared, too.” Shiro admits, more breath than words. “I was and still am scared, the future terrifies. It’s okay to be scared. I just wished you talked to me about it. I just wished you had trusted me enough to talk to me about it. You had me, Keith. You fucking had all of me. You didn't have nothing. Jesus, is that what you believed? All this time?”   
  
_i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry_   
  
Arms still tight, Shiro continues. “Maybe you were right. Maybe we were too young, too young to realize what we were getting into. Maybe you had the right idea, that we would grow to hate each other because we rushed into something we didn’t fully understand. But, maybe, if we could have talked about it - things could have been different. We’ll never know. It’s all maybes and what ifs, but we can’t stop living just because we’re afraid. You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Keith. It hurts to see you like this, always afraid, always doubting, always unsure.”   
  
Shiro pulls back to look at him, brows furrowed, eyes just as red and beneath the faint tinge of anger and confusion, the need to know more, it was still gleaming with that same light, that same light that looked at him as if he was painfully important.   
  
“I’m sorry,” He admits, with his whole heart, with whatever is left of it, hoping against all hope that Shiro could see the things he can’t struggle enough to let out in his eyes. “I’m sorry for not believing you. You asked me to believe you, and I did, but not enough. I’m sorry for not trusting you enough. I’m sorry for doubting you, or doubting us. You told me that we were forever, and I didn't believe you. You told me that you'll always be there and I didn't believe you. I’m sorry.”   
  
He finally says it - out in the air - and it’s not the apology that asks to be forgiven. It’s not the words of a man asking recompense, or the words of someone admitting he was wrong.   
  
They were simply the words of someone who had hurt the man he loved and hoping against the impossible — not asking because what right did he have to ask? What right did he have to still ask for anything? —  that he be given the chance to fix it someday.   
  
Shiro looks at him, arms not letting go, pain glimmering.   
  
“I’m sorry, too.” He says, and Keith’ lip trembles, not knowing what to say or do. A thumb reaches up to wipe the tear away from his cheek. “I’m sorry for letting you fester these feelings for so long. I’m sorry for telling you that I love you but not seeing that I was leaving you alone in your doubts and fears. I’m sorry for telling you that I’d love you forever, yet the moment you were scared and terrified, I didn’t notice. Christ, I was a fucking idiot, too.”   
  
“I’m an idiot, too.” Keith answers, rubbing his hand across the expanse of Shiro’s back.   
  
The taller sighs and closes his eyes, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the other’s.   
  
They simply swayed on the spot, apologizing for things beyond their control, still unwilling to let each other go, hands roving to comfort than to confront, words whispered to heal than to hurt.   
  
“I’m sorry.” Keith repeats, and Shiro is both thirty and twenty—asleep against his car and dapper in his suit as he kneels.   
  
“I’m sorry, too.” Shiro repeats, and he sees the terrified reflection of his younger self in the other’s eyes.   
  
“I forgive you.” He answers, and allows himself to finally unlock the chains and let all the pain run through his veins until he’s light as rain.   
  
“I forgive you, too.”

 

 

  
  
And then, somehow, when the pieces start patching themselves up, they finally match.

* * *

The bed is warm and soft beneath him, even though Keith is sure that, on any other night, he wouldn’t find it comfortable enough to get a good night’s rest on - but after the upheaval, he’s physically exhausted enough not to care. The air is cool, the wind seeping in through the open windows, and Keith watches Shiro pull the shirt off him, watches the gold skin and muscle ripple, the inked lines of a lion resting its claws over him.

His heart skips at the scene, a bit with desire, a bit with the longing — he had denied himself of Shiro for so long. The jeans come off next and, God, Shiro still looked like he was back when he was twenty, all skin and muscle and youth but now, things are different.

They’re too different now. They’ve had their challenges, separately, and they’ve begun to slowly accept and adjust to them, to the things beyond their control, to the things that made them human.  
  
Shiro is in his boxers as he steps over to the bed where Keith is sitting, dressed only in a really large shirt (“Hey, Shiro, can I keep your high school shirt?”, “Uh, okay. Sure thing, Keith”) and his underwear and Keith finally realizes what that expression is, the one that runs through Shiro’s eyes quickly, and it’s simple joy — as if he can’t believe that Keith was here, within reach, and Keith smiles up at him, tapping the bed.   
  
Shiro shakes his head, smiling almost shyly, as he maneuvers his large form under the blankets. The bed creaks, and Keith feels it dip and steady when Shiro is fully in and Keith turns to shut the lamplight, only the moon’s brightness cutting into the room. He tucks himself under the covers, and he’s only a second still before he feels arms wrapping themselves around him and pulling him close.   
  
Keith smiles to himself, turning to face the other. They’re too emotionally wrung to do anything more, and even if they were in the mood, it was too soon. The line of trust between them was intact but still fragile, their wounds still raw, still reeling from a decade of repressed hurt. It was too soon for anything intimate like sex. Keith simply turns and wraps his arms tighter against the other until he hears Shiro sigh, as if finally believing what he’s feeling—that they’re both here, in this moment, slowly building back what they had so carelessly destroyed.   
  
Memories flicker through his mind, like a zoetrope of their years together, all the moments he shared with Shiro and he’s slowly changing the angle of his arms, the way he holds the other. He feels Shiro look up at him in the dark, sees nothing but the pinpoints of moonlight on his eyes, and he nods, allowing himself to change his position until he was resting atop Keith, his nose pressed against Keith’ collarbone.   
  
“I’m heavy,” Shiro says and Keith sighs and presses his lips to the back of the other’s neck, his hands drawing shapes and tracing the lines of the tattoo encompassing Shiro’s arm.   
  
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” He repeats, whispers, feeling the cadence of Shiro’s breathing against his own chest.   
  
(“Shh, shh. I’m here.”)   
  
“It’s okay. You can let me in.” Keith whispers, lips against the skin behind Shiro’s ear. He hears an almost raspy inhale of air.   
  
(“Look at me, yes, Keith, look at me. Let me in.”)   
  
“You’ve always been strong for me, Shiro,” He combs his fingers through dark brown tresses, curling his fingers in the way he knows Shiro loves. “You’re always so strong for me. You don’t have to, not anymore.”   
  
(“I won’t hurt you. Baby, let me take care of you, let me make you feel good.”)   
  
“I can be strong for us, baby.” He says, he swears, he promises. “You don’t have to be strong around me. You can let your walls down around me. I won’t let go. Not anymore.”   
  
(“You don’t have to hide from me. No, don’t turn away, let me look at those eyes - those beautiful eyes - yes, there’s my good boy. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here. I’m here.”)   
  
There’s a shudder, it runs through Shiro’s body and the way it escapes him is beautiful, the way the arms around Keith grows infinitely tighter, the way Shiro trembles under his touch, unraveling, undone—beautiful, perfect, his.   
  
“I’ll still be here in the morning. Always.”   
  
(“I’m not letting go. Never.”)   
  
Keith doesn’t know where they stand now. He doesn’t know what will happen in the future, the clashes they will surely face, the wounds that still burn and the distance that is still there in pockets and slivers, in too quick and too long gazes — surprisingly, he’s not afraid.

Or, that he is afraid but not enough to incapacitate him, not enough to paralyze him.  
  
It still knocks the breath out of him, still has his thoughts reeling, but the man in his arms - the man he loves so much - the presence is enough, to know that he’s just as afraid as Keith, that Keith doesn’t have to be alone in being afraid is enough for him to stand and keep on going. They’re at a precipice, on the edge of a million more precipices—at the end of a crossroad in a forest filled with crossroads, and they’ll argue, and clash, and compromise but what they’ve forgotten, what they’ve just remembered was that they don’t have to make these choices alone anymore, that they’re here, both of them - in this moment filled with a million other moments. 

  
  
“Believe me.”   
  
(“Believe me.”)   
  
Together. 

* * *

“Hey, Shiro?”  
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“...You’re still helping me murder Lance and Allura at their own wedding right?”   
  
“Oh, definitely.”   


* * *

“Come, Keith. We still have to get things settled.” His father calls, and Keith rolls his eyes and pulls the trolley behind him. The apartment in front of them is tall, in slates of grey and black, each unit looking similar with the other. The neighbourhood was lavish and well-off, as he spies the expensive vehicles and the well-dressed neighbours.  
  
There’s a shout of anger, a young boy, coming from the balcony next to theirs and someone else shouts back, male and gruff-sounding, and his father raises a brow at the weird noise.   
  
“Well, it’s a lovely home. Not like the one back in Oriande, but it’ll do. Anyhow, we’ll be leaving once you’re done with college. Speaking of, have you received word from the academy if your units were properly credited?”   
  
Keith resists the urge to make a face at his father. “No, dad. I sent them yesterday, just give it a few days.”   
  
“Just making sure, son. The academy is prestigious, might do you some good to join a club or something. Find something to keep you busy while we’re here in the capital, you know.”   
  
Keith zones out the rest of his father’s words, his mind still in Oriande—on its flower-covered fields, infinite sky and gigantic castles. Arus was drab and bright and dull. There was nothing to keep him interested here.   
  
That same male voice shouted again, echoing from the balcony.   
  
Keith sighs. Yup, nothing was going to be interesting here.   
  


**END**

**Author's Note:**

> [It was so long ago, and so far away, and it was so much better than it is today.]


End file.
